


Little Eyes Closed

by Pippins_Mushr00ms



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Gen, Missing Scene, Plague, This bit hit me hard in the book, Vague, bodies, burial, jaskier feels too hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:40:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23161849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pippins_Mushr00ms/pseuds/Pippins_Mushr00ms
Summary: Jaskier goes for Essi after hearing about the pox epidemic in Vizima.Dandelion angst. Essi related. Set during Sword of Destiny. Revamped because I don't know how to stop editing
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	Little Eyes Closed

Little Eye

Summary:

Dandelion angst. Essi related. Guys, my heart hurts for these bois :'(

* * *

It was stinking, ugly place. The clouds hung low and dark in the sky over the field of madness Jaskier's eyes beheld. The black smoke from various pyres curled up and mixed with them nearly seamlessly. Hastily built, wooden watch towers dotted here and there, each with a lookout.

But here he was.

Dressed plainly in soft grey pants, brown boots and a simple brown tunic, Jaskier plodded along makeshift dirt path, wide enough for a cart, torn between examining the carnage and wanting to shut his eyes forever. It was like an assembly line set up on the far outskirts of Vizima.

He stared blankly down at the pox-ridden bodies as he dragged himself onwards. The corpses were lined up one after another after another on either side of the path, awaiting their final resting place in the pit. Their marred, pale skin and pain-twisted faces disturbed the bard. Some of their eyes, blessedly, had been closed for them. They stared up at Jaskier from both sides. There were so many… there was no way he would find her in this chaos.

His own vision suddenly blurred, his lungs burned and he had to stop walking. He'd tell himself it was the smoke bothering him, but he'd be lying to himself.

He could vaguely hear orders being shouted from somewhere above him, but they were not directed at him.

Jaskier wiped at the offending tears with his wrist, careful to keep his gloved hands from actually touching his face. He sniffed mightily through the rag over his nose and mouth, and began to trudge on, staring intensely at the bodies before him, searching.

 _'Not in vain,'_ he hoped, shifting the hard case strapped to his back.

There. About ten feet away. On his left. As if pulled by some magnetic force, the bard's feet dragged him closer, toward the other side of the rows of bodies.

Yellow hair. Dirty, but maybe once a brilliant gold. She was laid on her side, clad in simple, comfortable clothing. Her face was away from the bard, but Jaskier's heart dropped, as it had so many times before when he saw yellow hair peaking from the piles.

Slowly, he got to his knees in the dirt, already panting. He already dreaded what he knew he was going to find. He could already see a thin, silver chain shining from her slender neck. The man could barely believe it was still there in a place like this.

Gently, so gently, Jaskier brushed the golden hair back to reveal the face of Essi. Little Eye. He felt the breath leave his body with a sob.

Her skin was marked and marred like the others, but thankfully, her expression was one of peace. The sky blue pearl indeed still was there, rolling into the hollow of her throat as Jaskier pulled her onto his knees.

She was cold, and pale, but still beautiful.

"Oh," Jaskier said to her, his voice shaking. He clutched her to him, murmuring, "Oh, no. Darling, you don't belong here."

From then on, the bard only had a dim memories of gathering her slim, light body up. He remembered his knees gave out the first time he tried to stand with her.

Angry at himself for his weakness, he'd heaved himself to his feet. He remembered one of the attendants of this macabre burial factory coming towards him, but a cold look from Jaskier was apparently enough to stop him.

Jaskier was vaguely aware of walking towards the forest, like hed planned, and soon found himself deep among the trees, shaking violently.

He'd bathed her the best he could, with water from the nearby river, and his loveliest scented soap, preserving her modesty, mostly cleaning and brushing her hair til it shone again in a shadow of its former glory.

He refused to look at the grave he'd prepared much earlier, when official word reached his ears upon arriving in Vizima.

The bard never stopped shaking once. He knew he should rest, _needed_ to rest, but rest meant inactivity and inactivity meant time to think. It would not do to dwell when there was important work to be done.

He remembered singing softly, songs they'd shared together. His back ached by the time he placed Essi in her final resting place. Kneeling next to the open grave, Jaskier positioned her left arm so she was cradling her lute. Her right hand, he brought up to the blue pearl. His eyes stung again.

Sobs suddenly erupted from the bard as he closed the colorful burial sheet around his family. Jaskier nearly choked on the rag over his face every time he greedily inhaled.

Blindly, he began to shovel dirt into the hole with his hands, unaware of his lack of progress. Unaware of the way he howled. The bard forgot about the shovel he'd brought until he was nearly collapsed on the ground. His body was wracked so hard he almost spasmed.

It wasn't fair. He was almost glad Geralt wasn't here. He selfishly wished he were.

It was much, much later, when Jaskier finally emerged from the forest, freshly bathed in the river himself.

He'd left his mask and gloves and changed into clean clothes he'd brought in his pack, but his skin was still streaked with grime and sweat. His hair hung limply in his face, covering his blank, blue eyes. He must look a wreck.

On autopilot, he made his way back to the inn he was staying at, mumbling hoarsely to the innkeeper to keep the ale coming to his room for the night. He numbly dropped a few extra coins on the counter. Too many.

Jaskier got very, _very_ drunk that night.

* * *

NOTE: more self indulgent angst. I might keep this one going.

* * *

Note: I apparently have this bad habit of writing stuff I haven't finished reading/watching but here we are again. Taking some liberties here, too.

* * *

Part two:

It was days later.

Jaskier was camped out in the woods, unable to bear the noisy city a moment longer. He was still stiff, and his fingers were sore from digging under his nails. He still hadn't quite managed to get to get Essi's grave dirt out from under them. No matter how many times he washed them, scrubbed them raw, or picked under them with his dagger, it still felt like it was there.

He'd been here long enough to construct a decent, semi permanent lean-to made from sturdy branches and lots of leaves for cover. There were a couple of fallen trees that made for seating. Hell, he even had an actual, stone-lined firepit, in which a small fire crackled merrily.

Tonight, he was drunk. Again.

The usually extroverted bard strummed idly at his lute, listening to the night time wildlife. He didn't really feel like playing. He hadn't played properly since the day he buried Essi. It was just tonight, after a decent amount of hard alcohol, that the bard had been able to even look at his own lute.

His notes were off key and he knew it. Essi would have had his hide.

The thought made him smile for a fraction of a moment before sorrow crashed over him again.

The Dandelion took another pull from one of the many flasks sitting next to him and grimaced at the burn.

Halfheartedly, Jaskier gently twisted a peg and plucked the string at the same time until it sounded right. He winced. It hurt his fingers.

 _'Good,'_ he thought, savagely.

He then did the next one. And the next. And the next.

His deft fingers suddenly froze.

There were hoofbeats in the distance. He looked around, but having been staring at the fire, couldn't see past more than a few trees.

Jaskier was far enough from the road that he wouldn't been easily seen, but the risk was still there, should the mystery horseman decide to dismount and explore.

The bard hoped they wouldn't. He still wasn't ready for any more human contact. To be safe, Jaskier placed the half tuned instrument in its black, lacquered case and latched it shut before shoving it behind the camouflaged wall of his shelter.

Hidden or not, the glow of the fire would give him away anyway, but if the rider didn't see the lute, he wouldn't be asked to play. However, there wasn't much he could do should someone decide to come investigate.

Jaskier sat and stared at his little fire, listening as the hoofbeats grew louder. It sounded like there was only one horse.

He glanced around again and still there was nothing. The bard leaned back against his log and sighed. His head swam with drink.

"I thought I heard a lute somewhere," came a familiar growl in the distance.

Oh. This oughta be good.

"Greetings, Geralt," Jaskier slurred, waving a hand in a vague direction at the surrounding darkness. "Mighty Witcher."

"Bard," came the response, a pause and then, "You're drunk. I can smell it from here."

"Well done. Are you coming out of there or will you brood in the dark?" Jaskier said, nearly snapping. He seemed to come to himself. "Come, share my fire."

There was the sound of slithering leather and heavy boots hitting the leafy ground.

From between the trees, the Witcher seemed to materialize to his right. He was dressed in his usual silver-studded, black leather armor, leading the ever faithful Roach behind him.

Jaskier waved again, then took another drink from the flask. He held it out to Geralt after he threw Roach's reins over a low hanging branch. The witcher didn't tie them. He knew his horse would stay close.

The hunter dropped his bags next to the log, sat down heavily next to him and took the offered flask. He sniffed at it and grimaced. He still took a swallow.

"What are you doing out here alone, Jaskier?" He asked, handing it back. He stripped his gloves off as the bard tipped the flask against lips again.

"Fancied some me time," was the short response, once his throat stopped burning.

Geralt tossed another log on the fire. Jaskier winced when it flared to new life and allowed the witcher to get a good look at his friend.

True, he was drunk, and true, Geralt could smell it, but there was something else. Salt, soil, blood, and something underneath.

Geralt stared at the bard. He didn't look wounded, but the pale, waxy skin, stubble, and limp, blond hair worried him. There were dark circles under his glazed blue eyes. Dark enough to rival Geralt's own underage bags. He was missing his cap and fancy clothes, opting instead for a loose, white tunic, dark pants and calf high boots. Jaskier began to fidget under the other man's gaze.

"Did you come here just to stare at me?" He finally asked, annoyed. "I know I'm pretty, but--"

"What happened?" The witcher asked bluntly.

Startled, Jaskier opened and closed his mouth a few times in a marvelous impression of a shocked carp.

"Wha-? What do you _mean_ 'what _happened'_? Have you _seen_ this town?"

"Yes, I can smell it," Geralt replied calmly. "But I have eyes, too and can see that you're clearly not all right. You haven't caught the pox too, have you? You're not out here for quarantine?"

Jaskier was surprised at the sudden rage he felt when he heard the concern in the witcher's voice. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and stared angrily at the fire, brows furrowed. The last few days had taken their toll on him. He was tired and drunk. He couldn't decide if he was happy to see his friend or angry because he was just late enough he'd already done everything for Essi alone.

Geralt watched patiently as a myriad of emotions flitted across the bard's face. Roach nickered softly. Finally the man settled on something that looked resigned and sorrowful.

No, Jaskier couldn't be angry. How could Geralt know? He still had to tell him. He offered the flask to Geralt again, who declined. Jaskier took a long drink.

"Little Eye… Geralt, I'm so sorry…" he began, throat burning. "Essi, she--"

Jaskier took a deep, shuddering breath, unable to go on, but Geralt understood. His heart plummeted. Not Little Eye.

"Jaskier… I'm so--"

Jaskier waved him off, mumbling something sounding like, "Please, don't."

Geralt kept his silence and motioned him to continue. He did take the flask from the bard and drank before handing it back.

"I… went to the pit as soon as I heard. She… She… didn't belong there. D-didn't want that. Geralt, I couldn't _leave_ her there. I couldn't. I found… found her. And then-- then I carried her to the forest like she wanted and-- and--" Jaskier's slurred voice finally broke as he looked away from the flames.

He put his hands over his face, hiding his tears. That was when Geralt saw the bard's fingertips. All were red and angry looking, but a couple of them were seeping blood.

Grief. It'd been grief he'd smelt on his friend. Salty tears, grave soil and grief.

Awkwardly, his heart heavy, Geralt reached out and put an arm around his friend's shoulder. Jaskier melted into it instantly, still shaking with silent sobs. Occasionally, he caught some mumbled words, predominantly 'alone', 'lute' and 'pearl'. Geralt's own eyes stung.

Reaching around with his free hand, he rummaged through the front pouch of his bag a moment. When he found what he was looking for, he set it on the ground next to him. Geralt put his other arm around the huddled bard and waited for Jaskier to surface again.

 _'Essi,'_ thought Geralt, sadly. _'Beautiful Essi, you didnt deserve this fate.'_

"S-sorry," Jaskier finally snuffled from the crook of Geralt's shoulder. He pulled away slightly and the witcher let him. The bard wiped his face on his sleeve, feeling awkward, but drunk enough to not care.

"Don't be," Geralt mumbled. "Feel better?"

Jaskier nodded, then shrugged, then nodded again. He fumbled around for the flask again.

"Give me your hand."

"What?"

"Your hand," repeated Geralt, holding his own out. Jaskier saw a little blue bottle and a little cloth in the witcher's other hand.

"Why…?" Jaskier sniffed.

"Salve. It might sting, but…" Geralt shrugged.

"Wha-- oh, I didn't realize," Jaskier looked down at his slightly mangled hand. He felt guilty. "Yeah, I guess I m-may have overdone it."

"A little," Geralt said with a ghost of a smile.

Geralt poured a bit of the blue liquid onto the cloth and motioned "gimme" to Jaskier. The bard obliged, placing his hand in Geralt's and hissing softly when his friend touched it to his wounds. He didn't move except to lean tiredly against the hunter.

"I am…" Geralt began, very obviously focusing too intently on what he was doing, "sorry, Jaskier. I know she was like a sister to you. And I am very sorry that I wasn't there for you."

Jaskier just nodded against the leather armor, wincing when Geralt moved onto his next finger.

"You're here now," Jaskier mumbled, head dropping onto his chest.

"I'm here now," Geralt muttered back.

Jaskier didn't answer. Didn't flinch or hiss when he swiped the blue salve over the next fingers. Geralt could hear the deep, even breathing. The bard was asleep.

For his friend's sake, Geralt tamped down his own emotions. There would be time for that later, when Jaskier's were not so raw and open.

* * *

Note: I'm spoiling myself lol I hope I dont keep reading and find out there was already a camp fire scene about this in the book hahaha


End file.
